“When’s the wedding coming off?” bantered Mr. Dobb.
Mr. Clark started violently and said something reprehensible about Mr. Dobb’s inquisitiveness.
“What—is it all off, Sam?” teased Mr. Dobb.
“It are! Not that there was any real chance of it ever being on, but—but—”
He shook his head dolefully and added an unkind aspiration with regard to Mr. Joseph Bindley’s future state.
“Why, what’s ’e to do with it?”
“Heverything! Mind you, I was never fool enough to think that a girl like ’er—well a woman like ’er, then,” he amended, in deference to Mr. Dobb’s startled exclamation—“that a woman like ’er would ever take to a old chap like me. I admit I was romantical, but—but one never knows, do one?”
“You might ’ave been ’er ideal, Sam,” conceded Mr. Dobb. “As you says, one can’t ever know for sure.”
“Of course, if ever I’d got to know ’er properly—” said Mr. Clark. “I did once fetch a cab for ’er,” he went on, smiling pathetically at the happy memory. “And she thanked me and give me thrippence. At least, she sent it out to me with ’er thanks. I ain’t ever spoke to ’er, reely. And now that ’ere Bindley—”
He stopped emotionally, and then again voiced an uncharitable interest in Mr. Bindley’s eventual destination.